“Right,” Bunny said. “Here we go.” He had eased the Hudson into a sharp bank when the port engine began to shudder. Bunny felt himself go cold as his eyes shot to the engine. He saw a thin black stream trailing along the upper edge of the wing through his window. He searched the instrument panel for the port engine oil-pressure gauge. The pressure was dropping rapidly — they were leaking oil from the oil tank bay. He quickly switched off the engine and feathered the Hamilton Standard propeller. “We’ve lost the port engine,” he said.
“What?” Peter said. Bunny heard the fear in his voice. He had every reason to be afraid. At best N-for-Nancy could get 177 miles an hour. On two engines. Now she had one. When the fighters showed up it would be a slaughter.
“We’re going home, chaps,” Bunny said. “Close it up. Peter, get ready to throw out everything not nailed down. Prentice, tell base what’s happened and then help Peter. Stay away from the rear door once you’ve popped it off. I don’t want either one of you going out. Lie on the deck, one passes to another who chucks it out the door. Johnny, you’re our eyes.”
“Yes, Bunny.”
“Don’t fail us.”
“No, Bunny.”
Pilot Sergeant Douglas Walker reached inside his flight suit and squeezed the tiny stuffed rabbit that he kept there, three times. It was a ritual before each flight: three squeezes and everything would come out splendidly. Now he felt his hand trembling inside his suit and he realized just how frightened he was. They were hundreds of miles behind enemy lines in a damaged aircraft barely capable of keeping itself in the air. Still, it would do no good to let the other fellows know how afraid he was. He pushed the rabbit deeper into his suit and zipped it closed.
“Peter? You mustn’t forget to throw those devilish cameras out, will you? Bit of irony there.”
“The cameras, Bunny?”
“Every last one of the bastards.”
“What a splendid idea.”
“Bunny!” Johnny said. “Five o’clock. Three aircraft.”
“How far out, Johnny?”
“Ten miles.”
They would be on the Hudson IV in minutes and then the damaged aircraft would be doomed. Johnny could keep them at bay for a moment or two; he was a game shot with a good eye. But the end would be the same: the ME 109s would line up and come in fast and it would be three hawks on a very plump pigeon with an injured wing. N-for-Nancy had no place to go — nowhere to hide.
The storm!
It hung in front of him, a great gray wall of boiling clouds, and wind and rain that provided the only shelter they could hope for. If they could reach it they could escape the German fighters. But if they reached it, they had to survive its fury. They had half the power that they needed in a storm that could tear them apart. But what choice did they have?
Bunny began to ease the yoke down, diving to build up speed.
“Johnny? Can you keep them away from us until I reach those clouds?”
“I’ll try, Bunny, but don’t take too long, will you? They look angry to me.”
Bunny kept the Hudson’s nose pointed toward the ominous mountain of clouds before them. Bolts of lightning flashed across the face of the dark mass illuminating fissures, valleys, and peaks so dense that they might have been solid. More lightning glowed deeply within the body of the storm as it hungrily anticipated the arrival of the damaged aircraft. The clouds seethed across the sky with violence, promising an endless wave of assaults should N-for-Nancy survive the first encounter.
N-for-Nancy was behaving sluggishly with just one engine turning. There was more than that. She was a fine ship, one of the first to come over from Lockheed in the States, but she was past her prime and she wanted nothing more than quiet duty along the English coast, looking for downed bomber crews or scouting for E-boats. Even with everything thrown out that could be and Bunny’s right hand nursing the throttles to the starboard engine up for more power, she had reached her limit.
The twin 7.7-mm spat a burst and two dark streaks flashed by Bunny, one on either side of the Hudson. Their roar startled him. This would be no contest.
“Peter, Prentice! Get to the beam guns. Keep those bloody bastards off us,” Bunny said. He glanced at the clouds. God, were they moving away? Trying to elude him? Playing a devilish game of keep-away now, when he needed them to stay alive?
“Here they come,” Johnny called. “Nine o’clock. Six o’clock high.”
Bunny heard the hammering of the Hudson’s guns and felt the vibration run through the fuselage. Suddenly he felt the unmistakable tremor of bullets striking N-for-Nancy, sharp blows from the 20mm cannons aboard the German fighters. The starboard window exploded and cold air rushed in with the force of a hurricane. They’d be chewed up. Fuselage, engines, controls, flaps, elevators, wings… men.
Bunny’s hands were numb and his eyes were watering from the frigid air blasting into the cabin. He looked over the nose of N-for-Nancy, searching for the best place to enter the storm. They were running out of time. Too far to go. The clouds were too far away. He needed the port engine; without it they had no chance.
Bunny reached down and flipped the magneto on the port engine, adjusted the fuel mixture, and pressed the starter. She’d been leaking oil all along. There might not be any left in the oil tank bay. But there might be enough left in the engine — just enough to turn her over. Just enough to keep her going. Just enough to get them to the clouds.
He felt cannon shells slam into the plane and heard the sound of metal being wrenched apart. The Hudson shuddered under the impact of the shells as they punched holes in N-for-Nancy’s body. But his eyes were on the port engine. He adjusted the throttle and switched the starter again.
He saw the propeller turn slightly, stop, and turn. The engine was kicking over. It turned again and suddenly blasted to life with a growl and a cloud of black smoke. He eased the throttles up and felt N-for-Nancy respond.
“Port’s on,” he said and he heard the crew cheer.
“That’s lovely news,” Peter said calmly. “Now would you kindly get us the hell out of here?”
Bunny pushed the yoke well forward and the Hudson dropped like a brick, gathering speed as she approached the clouds. The German fighters realized what the Hudson had planned and dove on her viciously, tearing into her with cannon and machine-gun fire. Bits of metal and fabric skin flew off the plane — flesh from a wounded animal fleeing for its life. N-for-Nancy’s crew fired back, but they could only annoy the fighters who rushed in, fired, twisted out of range, and spun around for another attack.
Bunny smelled smoke, the ozone-spiked stench of an electrical fire. He glanced at the port engine and was relieved to see its propeller biting happily into the air. He felt a sudden jolt and a cry from one of the men.
“The bastards got an oxygen canister,” Prentice said, and Bunny heard the loud hiss of a fire extinguisher. “That’s got it.”
There it was: the storm.
“Here we go, chaps!” Bunny shouted. The Hudson smashed into a huge wall of black clouds. They were thrown up and down and twisted back and forth as lightning flashed through the darkness. The storm greedily accepted the Hudson as a sacrifice: sheets of rain pummeling the aircraft, ice crystals clattering against the skin like bullets. But not enemy bullets.
“Everyone to their positions,” Bunny ordered. “For God’s sake strap yourselves in.” He looked down and saw the temperature gauge needle on the port engine climbing steadily. She was out of oil and in a few minutes the engine would seize. He cut back the throttle, turned off the fuel, and feathered the propeller.